At the far corner of the courtyard she dashed through a door and ran up two flights of stairs; a short flight in front of her, and a longer flight to her left from the landing of the first. At the top of the stairs she passed through four rooms. In the fifth, lighted from behind her through a door by an orange glow from the glare of the conflagration, she sank down on the floor against its farther wall. Almost at once she was on her feet, recoiling from the wall. It quivered with the shock of blows from the outside. A shower of plaster and bits of brick stung her face and spattered all over her. She saw the point of a pick-axe shine an instant in the fire-glare. “I’m here,” she called. “I’m safe. Take your time. It’s not hot in here yet.” The excited blows thudded on the wall. The sledges broke a hole as big as her head, four times as big as her head. “Take your time!” she repeated. “There is no hurry now.” Soon she could see the torches outside, the faces of the firemen, Almo’s face. “No!” she said, “I won’t be dragged through a crevice. There is plenty of time. Dig that hole bigger!” When it was large enough to suit her she bade her rescuers back away. “No man must touch what I carry,” she warned. Outside, in Almo’s arms, she was hurried through winding alleys, up narrow stone stairways, to the Palace. At the end of a deep, dark passageway between high walls Lutorius, with some of the Emperor’s aides, was waiting for them at a small door. He guided them to where they were eagerly expected. As they threaded the corridors, they heard, at first far off, then closer and closer, the sound of a child wailing, bawling, blubbering. Even in the Palace, Campia was an irrepressible cry-baby. In the chapel of the Statue of Victory they found the Vestals, the Empress and the Emperor. “I’ve got it safe,” Brinnaria proclaimed. “I’m a frightful-looking bride,” she added, “wet as a drowned pup, scorched all over, all my hair burnt off; I must look a guy.” “Never mind that,” said Commodus; “you can’t get home to-night, the conflagration is still spreading. I doubt if the firemen can save the Colosseum. It would take you till daylight to work your way round the districts which are in confusion. You’ll sleep here. I’ve had Trajan’s own private suite made ready for you two, as soon as the first messenger told me of your gallantry. You’ll find an army of maids and such waiting for you. Go make yourselves comfortable. “The bedroom of Rome’s greatest Emperor is none too good for you. Nothing is too good for you, Brinnaria. “You’ve saved the Palladium, and me, and the Empire and the Republic and Rome.” End of Project Gutenberg’s The Unwilling Vestal, by Edward Lucas White